


Psalm 31:22

by seventeensteps



Series: Verses [2]
Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:53:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7573096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeensteps/pseuds/seventeensteps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Donnie never plans to go back to the church.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psalm 31:22

**Author's Note:**

> (Spoilers up to ep8)
> 
> Sooooooo, here it is, the sequel. I really like Donnie, and this is the result. Thank you guys for reading and sticking with this sin train. X

 

_"I panicked. "Out of sight, out of mind," I said. ~~But you heard me say it, you heard and listened.~~ " _

**_Psalm 31:22_ **

 

Donnie never plans to go back to the church.

He doesn't want to go back. Too painful, too embarrassing. His skin burnt too hot. His heart felt too cold. He doesn't have to go back. He's fine now. He's doing better. He told Betsy what the Preacher could do, and although she didn't really _understand_ (to understand is to experience, and Preacher would have to kill him before he had any chance of using it on her), she believed something had happened to him.

"It's okay," she said, her wiry, fragile arm holding him tight while his tears flowed and stained her blouse. Bets has always been so strong, he loves her so much. When she said, "Your moment will come," her voice was full of conviction. Bets believed him, believed in him. And hearing that, he believed her, too.

 

 

 

  
(Donnie didn't tell her about his time spent in the confessional. It was unnecessary. Betsy didn't have to know that.)

 

 

 

 

Donnie doesn't want to come back. He'd like to think that he's stronger that this, this carnal flame licking under his skin. He keeps telling himself that this is the last time, this has to be the last time. He tries to remember how he feels after each time he came here. Sex with Preacher ripped a vacant hole inside his chest, tore it wider each time Donnie stood up and collected his clothes, Jesse lay smoking on the dirty bed. He doesn't know how it's come to this.

Bit by bit. A slippery slope.

Sometimes Donnie came to the church, and one glance at him, and Jesse knew. He walked into the confessional and waited. There were some days that Donnie walked out and away, Betsy’s words burning all over him, but most days, he followed the Preacher into the box.

He doesn’t even remember how they ended up in the man’s bedroom the first time it happened. He remembers being told to get on the bed, to _turn around, take off your pants_. Remembers the sound of rubber and the cold touch of lube. Remebers the distinct smell of smoke and liquor and Jesse Custer in the pillow under his nose. Remembers the thoroughness of those fingers and the hot, hard flesh in him. Jesse’s voice was hoarse and Donnie was so lost he feared he wouldn’t be able to find an exit. It ended in a haze of rapture, his brain refusing to function for a while. He could feel a pair of lips on his shoulder blade, but it could have also been something else.

The crash was horrible, left him on the verge of tears the entire ride home, but needless to say, they haven’t gone back to the confessional after that.

Donnie hates the man. Hates that he liked it. Hates himself for betraying Betsy, betraying everyone. Hates himself who too easily spread his legs when the man said the words. He didn’t even use his power, just looked at Donnie with dark, intoxicated brown eyes, and Donnie did as he said anyway.

What he hates, most of all, is that after the act, he feels himself reverting back to being just another object in the room, like a table or a chair, his existence completely erased from the Preacher's brain. Like his mind has moved on to more important things already. As if his only purposes are to listen and comply and get fucked into the mattress. The man won't talk to him, won't spare him a glance.

Donnie starts to see himself as a fly that gets a scrap of attention only when it flies close to the Preacher, buzzing irritatingly, but as soon as Jesse brushes it away, the fly becomes just another thing to be discarded and forgotten.

He gets up, his limbs tired and heavy, he wants to fall asleep, but that’s out of the question. Picking up his clothes lying in a pathetic heap on the floor, he walks to the bathroom. He tries not to look at the mirror, doesn’t let himself think about the thing that’s happened in that room. Instead, he walks into the shower, and turns the knob to the coldest setting. He jumps when the first spray of icy water hits him, and takes a quick shower with the only bottles of shampoo and bodywash.

He does feel like a whore. Donnie lets out a mirthless laugh, but at least whores fake their pleasure and get paid for it, and their customers seek them out, not vice versa.

He dresses quickly, doesn’t want to linger. One of the downsides of being an adult is that there's no time left for moping around. He can't afford that now. So many things need to be done. Work. Responsibility. Family. He doesn't get to just sit and pity himself. Money doesn't grow from trees.

This has to be the last time, Donnie decides. It really needs to stop. Mr. Quincannon has been planning something, and Donnie needs to be there when the man wants it to be carried out.

He gets out of the bathroom, and heads for the door. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s desperate to say something. In the end, he doesn’t, swallowing the words back into his throat. Why does it matter?

He walks away from that place. It’s already dark outside, and the emptiness is suffocating. It pulls him in, and it makes him choke. Makes him feel like he'll never be able to resurface and take another gulp of air.

He doesn’t die. He just drowns and drowns and drowns.

 

 

 

 

Betsy looks worried. She notices his eyes.

“I’m back, darling,” he tells her, and means every word.

 

 

 

 

When Mr. Quincannon tells him about the plan, how he’s going to tear that insulting building down, Donnie’s too slow to stop himself from frowning.

“Got a problem, Donnie?” Other men turn to look at him, looking expectant.

“No, sir,” he answers, heart booming in his ears, almost too loud to hear the next words.

“You’ll lead the men.” Mr. Quincannon looks up at him, his eyes fixed pointedly at the arm in the cast.

Hoping his eyes appear hard enough, he nods. “Yes, sir.”

 

 

 

 

He’s sitting behind the wheel and the tears that come are hot and fast and sharp. He inhales harshly, and has to park on the side of the road, knuckles white. _Put the gun in your mouth,_ the Preacher says, a mad, frenzied glint in those eyes. He gags, and tastes a distinct tang of metallic on his tongue, breath catches in his throat. He can hear the paralyzing click when his finger pulls back the hammer. His vision is blurry, his world narrowing down to the barrel in his mouth. _Please_. He wants it to stop, please, please make it go away.

 

 

 

  
The first thing he notices when he comes to is the spot of dirt on the windshield. Automatically, he reaches out to rub it away with his thumb, only to realize that the stain is situated on the other side of the glass. He blinks. He hasn’t passed out, not exactly. He just sits there, eyes staring straight ahead, but unseeing. He wipes the mess on his face away with the collar of his polo shirt, and shifts the gears into drive.

 

 

 

  
He spends that entire evening scrubbing every filthy smear off the surface of his Impala. He doesn’t know why he bothers. He lives in a desert town. The dust and dirt are going to stain it again tomorrow.

By the time he’s done, he’s dripping wet from head to toe, the white wife-beater he's wearing clings to his skin.

When he gets into the house, drying himself with a towel, Betsy ogles him appreciatively from behind the kitchen table. “Hello, there.”

It ends with him backing her into their bedroom, with his hands on her ass and his lips on her neck.

 

 

 

 

Mr. Quincannon is trying to cheer the men up. Donnie doesn’t really pay attention, what he’s saying is a load of crap. He’s more focused on walking to his car, and notices that his baby is already tarnished all over with red dirt.

He opens the trunk, takes off his glove, his hat, and then the sling, feeling calmer than he expected, before he kneels with his right hand holding the handle of the trunk, taking it down with him. He holds the gun, _the_ gun, with his left hand, and suddenly it occurs to him that all this feels a bit ritualistic.

He cocks the hammer back, and takes a deep breath.

 

 

 

  
He goes in through the kitchen, and it feels too familiar for his own liking. Something in his chest throbs heavily. He usually used this door to get in and out of the place discreetly.

He treads carefully into the church, and there he is, sitting on the floor, with one of his long legs stretched in front of him. Carefree.

He can’t believe he slipped in this easily, and almost laughs at the irony of it all.

Donnie must have stepped onto a loose board, because abruptly, Jesse spins himself up, and points the rifle at him. It’s disconcerting, that much movement, and the air is still blank around him.

Jesse’s lips move, and for a brief moment, Donnie forgets why he is here, silently curses his stupidity for walking into the line of fire. Jesse says something again, and again, but Donnie’s revolver is pointing at him still. The Preacher frowns, confusion clear in his expression.

Pure, euphoric sense of liberation courses through him. _This is it_ , he thinks. _No more_.

‘What?’ he says, or maybe shouts, and although he’s aware of the vibration, the lack of sound throws him off a bit.

Jesse’s mouth moves, and the look on his face is half shock, and half something else that looks too close like pity. Fuck him.

‘What’d you say, Preacher?’ he laughs, otherwise he’s afraid he’d cry instead. ‘What?’

And this is the part that he can’t comprehend, because Jesse… slowly lowers the rifle, all the fight and earlier fierceness evaporates from his features. It seems like he’s saying something again, and it irritates him that he can’t understand those simple soundless syllables.

‘What?’

Jesse’s head whips to look right at him. He says something again, and Donnie has to knock the bastard out before he can do even more damage.

The man goes down like a puppet. Hitting the wooden floor silently, he looks deceptively light.

 

Donnie knows for a fact that he isn’t.

And he hates that he knows exactly what it feels like, to shift under that weight, and to have that body pressed on top of him.

 

He has to go get Mr. Quincannon.

 


End file.
